


Drawn In

by Mithrigil



Series: Trust in Gravity [2]
Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: First Time, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven't had time alone since before the pilgrimage began. Now they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn In

It’s simple enough to secure the mouth of the cave, but Auron still intends to keep watch. That Chocobo Eater may still be prowling the highroad, even down here in the ravine, and he’s not taking any chances. Especially since Jecht may be looking for them.

“I’m sure he’s waiting for us at the agency,” Braska says, perceptive as ever. He’s set up camp and a tender fire toward the back of the cave, and is sitting with his back against the wall, robes pooled around him. “You need rest too.”

It’s true. And Auron won’t deny it. But Braska needs it more--Auron can get by on strength and will, but Braska’s concentration nearly ran out before the fiend drove them over the cliff, and at the bottom he still had to set Auron’s broken bones from the fall. “You first, my lord.”

Braska smiles, open and warm as the fire. “Then will you sit with me until I do?”

“Of course.” It’s rare these days for Braska to ask. Then again, with their third set of eyes, he doesn’t have to.

Auron sits beside him, and when Braska reaches over to stoke the fire with the butt of his staff, his sleeve runs along Auron’s thigh and doesn’t quite withdraw. “Strange,” Braska says.

“My lord?”

“It feels like we haven’t had any time alone since before we set out.”

_Because we haven’t,_ Auron thinks, but it seems wrong to say something so crass. And he shouldn’t presume. If he’s honest with himself, he was looking forward to setting out alone together--

\--at least, until that kiss on the roof. Which must be why Braska brought Jecht along in the first place. Auron’s presumption. It’s uncharitable to think he’s being strung along, Braska would never, but he definitely crossed a line and proved that he doesn’t understand Braska’s pain, or his errand, or _him_.

“Auron.” Braska sighs, laughing into his shoulder. “Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I think your restlessness is rubbing off,” Braska jokes. He whispers, muffled by Auron’s pauldron, “Have I done something to offend you?”

“No,” Auron says, “never.” But the tension doesn’t leave him. Braska’s sitting so close, and here Auron is, dwelling on all the ways he’s been wrong from the start. “If anything, I’ve offended you.”

Braska looks up, elegant eyebrows raised. His hair has grown out some, frames his face in the firelight. Auron looks away. “Auron, you’ve done nothing but give up your entire life for me. That’s hardly an offense.”

Auron can’t help the scoff that escapes his lips. “And yet I ask too much of you.”

”If you’ve asked anything of me, it hasn’t been to my face.”

Braska may be smiling still, but it’s hardly a joke to Auron: he remembers, all at once, all the things he’s dreamed, all the fantasies he’s never given voice, and the one reality of that desperate kiss, now months ago, floods him so suddenly that he has to shut his eyes to keep it in. “Perhaps not,” he says, because if he doesn’t speak, he’ll just plunge into those memories again, all the times he gave in to that wanting, and shouldn’t have.

But Braska puts a hand on Auron’s knee, and asks, gentle and patient as ever, “Are you glad that we’re alone?”

Auron looks up. Braska’s eyes are as dire as they are when he calls the aeons, when he dances to send the souls of the dead. “I shouldn’t be,” Auron says, lowers his eyes again.

But he can still feel Braska looking at him, almost through him, and he knows the secret won’t keep for long.

“I was,” Auron starts, quietly, “expecting to go alone. I don’t begrudge Jecht his help. But I had a different idea of things from the start. That’s all.”

“Is it?”

“...No. But the rest I really shouldn’t speak of.”

Braska tents his fingers on Auron’s knee. “Why not? This pilgrimage is no place for regret.” 

“It’s not regret.”

“Then what?” He flattens his hand, and draws back from Auron’s side, puts enough distance between them that when Auron looks again they’re face-to-face. “Auron. You can tell me.”

_I want you,_ he thinks, but cannot say. _I’ve wanted you for years. And you’re going to Zanarkand to die._

Braska breathes, level, close. “Is this about what happened on the temple roof?”

Auron nods, his throat so swollen and hot that it hurts to speak. “I didn’t intend to push you. I shouldn’t have kissed you. And I couldn’t ask your forgiveness in front of Jecht.”

Braska laughs, just once, gentle, as if he’s admonishing himself. “Auron,” he sighs again, leaning in, “I swear, there’s nothing to forgive.”

His mouth seals over Auron’s, warm and tender, and the world drops away.

One kiss, that’s all it takes. One kiss opens the floodgates that Auron’s built up for years, and he takes Braska by the shoulders, holds him close, tight, _here._ Braska opens to him, welcomes him with a laugh that Auron can taste, somewhere under that heat and the fervor and the sense of something _giving_ , at last. And no matter how close Auron presses, how hard he curls his fists in Braska’s robes, Braska doesn’t flinch away.

They tumble to the cave floor, suddenly enough that Auron breaks away to check, no, they haven’t brushed the fire. Braska, already halfway out of his robes, shrugs them down, peels Auron’s haori off with the pauldrons still attached. Contact, skin-to-skin, is all Auron dreamed and more, and when Braska slides his hands down Auron’s bare back Auron lets out a growl. This is real. This is more than he deserves, all he wants and more than he deserves--

“--tell me what I should do,” he pants, burying his face in Braska’s neck, “please, my lord, tell me what I should do.”

Braska lifts one hand to cup Auron’s chin, make sure their eyes meet in the scant firelight. “Just touch me,” he whispers, “and call me by name.”

Auron’s heart pounds, then stops, then surges, down with his hand.

They make short work of the rest of their clothes, and Auron loses everything else in the world but kissing, touch, need. When Braska’s hand curls around him it’s all he can do to hold on, take him in kind. Braska pleads, _yes, there, Auron, yes,_ and if Braska’s sure touch won’t undo him too soon it will be his voice, unabashed and begging and free.

“Please,” he moans, hips canting into Auron’s hand, “please, Auron, I want--”

A world of heat gathers in Auron’s spine, like magic, like pain, “Anything. _Anything--”_ he chokes, and remembers, “--Braska--”

Braska throws his head back, bares his throat when he comes. It’s the most beautiful thing Auron’s ever seen, even if his world is haze and heat. And Braska’s grip undoes him, or his voice, or both. Or everything.

They lie tangled together, and the fire gutters. Auron doesn’t give it a second thought. There is nothing beyond this cave. There is nothing beyond Braska’s touch. There is nothing beyond Braska.


End file.
